That's the first thing that comes to mind whenever Mako thinks back on it. Chuck and his father were leaving for the other side of the world the next day, their things packed haphazardly into bags that eventually found themselves lined up out in the hall. Their dads had retreated to beers and war stories, leaving Mako and Chuck to the painstaking exercise of spending time with one another. Not that Chuck and Mako hadn't learned how to over the years, but the easier rapport of childhood had given way to the strained awkwardness of adolescence. An odd sort of tension that was part rivalry and part simply Chuck being Chuck.
In the end they'd bumped noses, bumped knees and bumped teeth, and when everything was said and done Mako wasn't sure if awkward also meant awesome. But it didn't really matter because Chuck was gone and she was on her own again. (That was that.)
—only that hadn't been that; that had turned into this over time. What Chuck likes to call officially the worst idea in the world: the lot of them packed like sardines into a camper, the others following caravan style in a beat-up pickup truck nicknamed Irene and a station wagon that looks older than both of their dads. Mako spends a lot of time in that truck and that station wagon, her bare feet propped up on the dash, toes wriggling against the distant line of the horizon. But for now, she's here, paying her dues by once again taking up Chuck duties.
Although her attention's elsewhere she hears the sound of his hand flopping to the table, the hard exhale of air from his lungs. Chuck's bored which means, if somebody doesn't run interference any time soon, it's going to be everyone's problem and not just his. The feet that dangle off the very edge of the bunk disappear, the sound of cheap sheets sticking to skin as she rearranges herself.
Bracing one hand along the edge of the bunk, Mako swings the top half of her torso out just far enough that, when she reaches out with her spare arm, she can flick the back of Chuck's ear with the cap of her pen.
[ he finished every sudoku puzzle on hand in the first two days. max is sleeping in a puddle of his own drool, energy run out of him at breakfast time- when chuck had begun his regularly scheduled sprint- dog hot on his heels. he can barely make out the sound of some late nineties band playing from the driver's seat. where their fathers don't really sing so much as make noise from time to time and then punctuate this with long lapses of comfortable silence.
there isn't anything comfortable about the flick that finds the shell of his ear, and chuck jolts away from the contact- one hand brought up to the side of his head with a sharp- ] Oi- [ followed by a dirty look. he's likely got a patent on them by now, and hasn't appeared to run out of variations to dispense. ]
The hell was'at for?
[ they roll over uneven road, and chuck rocks with the same force that jostles their camper, but doesn't lose his balance. ]
[ Mako doesn't bother answering aloud, instead leaving her expression to do most of the talking. She's like that with nearly everyone but with Chuck most of all, leaving the lion's share of what she means unsaid, relying on silence to convey her meaning. (The tic of an eyebrow, the purse of her mouth; a stare that could wither redwoods.)
It's a benefit (or a curse) of having grown up together, their formative years intertwined by both their fathers' careers and friendship. Some would say Chuck and Mako were practically destined to be at least as close, being their fathers' children, but temperaments waxed and then waned with the onset of adolescence, placing them at odds with one another the way siblings often were.
Tilting her head to one side, Mako doesn't draw back for fear of retaliation. If he brought it, she would match it. They both knew that. (Maybe she was counting on it.) ]
[ he doesn't take the bait, but it's for a number of reasons. chuck isn't afraid of the fight that could break out between them- there'd been enough over the years, and whatever it was that held them together (shared history if nothing else) kept the balance well enough. they don't sync up, not the way they had when they were small, but there's a kind of understanding chuck shares with her that he keeps with no one else. it isn't trust so much as a mutual awareness. swords forged in the same fires.
in many ways they are the sun and moon to eachother- opposites in every way, and held in place by gravity. they will always be constants to one another, but the same force that locks them together will forever keep them from touching.
he'll wait for her to turn back around, do whatever the hell it is she's doing, making friendship bracelets for her and becket or whatever (that's more raleigh's style and he knows it, but the grit to his teeth is there all the same. chuck's gaze returns to the window out of sheer spite. he'll throw the nearest object (a drab looking pillow no bigger than his forearm) as soon as she isn't looking. cheap shot. ]
[ Chuck doesn't rise to the challenge and maybe that's a disappointment but Mako knows better than to take his attempt to look back out the window as anything personal. (That's just Chuck.) She knows that as soon as she turns her back on him again, he'll retaliate with something a little less than dignified. His father had a reputation for sucker punches and dirty brawls, a habit that's apparently passed onto his son. Whether it's nature or whether it's nurture, they'll never know, but Mako can feel his own impulses almost as tangibly as she does her own.
That's why he's the only one who can get a real rise out of her, who can barrel roll his way past the quiet reservedness of so many of her defenses. Chuck had watched her build those walls inside of herself, and when they were children had even helped her lay the foundation of so many, passing her brick after brick, his hands lingering and then not and then pulling away until there was nothing left for Mako to do but finish what they'd started on her own.
It doesn't make her bitter or angry or sad. It just makes her close to him in a way no one else is. A way that will never be closer (they'd tried it and it was awkward but maybe it was special too; Mako doesn't know).
Rather than give him the satisfaction of turning back to the little notepad she's been doodling in, Mako swings herself round and out to dangle, the motion graceful and near-balletic as she deposits herself into the narrow aisle of the camper feet-first. There's a flash of pale leg (not long, but lithe) as she does so, then the undeniable push of her hand as she tries to shove Chuck's feet off the bench across from him in an attempt to make room for herself.
He might be stubborn but she is too and Mako's never (never) walked away from anything. Never in her entire life. ]
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no subject
That's the first thing that comes to mind whenever Mako thinks back on it. Chuck and his father were leaving for the other side of the world the next day, their things packed haphazardly into bags that eventually found themselves lined up out in the hall. Their dads had retreated to beers and war stories, leaving Mako and Chuck to the painstaking exercise of spending time with one another. Not that Chuck and Mako hadn't learned how to over the years, but the easier rapport of childhood had given way to the strained awkwardness of adolescence. An odd sort of tension that was part rivalry and part simply Chuck being Chuck.
In the end they'd bumped noses, bumped knees and bumped teeth, and when everything was said and done Mako wasn't sure if awkward also meant awesome. But it didn't really matter because Chuck was gone and she was on her own again. (That was that.)
—only that hadn't been that; that had turned into this over time. What Chuck likes to call officially the worst idea in the world: the lot of them packed like sardines into a camper, the others following caravan style in a beat-up pickup truck nicknamed Irene and a station wagon that looks older than both of their dads. Mako spends a lot of time in that truck and that station wagon, her bare feet propped up on the dash, toes wriggling against the distant line of the horizon. But for now, she's here, paying her dues by once again taking up Chuck duties.
Although her attention's elsewhere she hears the sound of his hand flopping to the table, the hard exhale of air from his lungs. Chuck's bored which means, if somebody doesn't run interference any time soon, it's going to be everyone's problem and not just his. The feet that dangle off the very edge of the bunk disappear, the sound of cheap sheets sticking to skin as she rearranges herself.
Bracing one hand along the edge of the bunk, Mako swings the top half of her torso out just far enough that, when she reaches out with her spare arm, she can flick the back of Chuck's ear with the cap of her pen.
Suck it up, Hansen. ]
no subject
there isn't anything comfortable about the flick that finds the shell of his ear, and chuck jolts away from the contact- one hand brought up to the side of his head with a sharp- ] Oi- [ followed by a dirty look. he's likely got a patent on them by now, and hasn't appeared to run out of variations to dispense. ]
The hell was'at for?
[ they roll over uneven road, and chuck rocks with the same force that jostles their camper, but doesn't lose his balance. ]
no subject
It's a benefit (or a curse) of having grown up together, their formative years intertwined by both their fathers' careers and friendship. Some would say Chuck and Mako were practically destined to be at least as close, being their fathers' children, but temperaments waxed and then waned with the onset of adolescence, placing them at odds with one another the way siblings often were.
Tilting her head to one side, Mako doesn't draw back for fear of retaliation. If he brought it, she would match it. They both knew that. (Maybe she was counting on it.) ]
no subject
in many ways they are the sun and moon to eachother- opposites in every way, and held in place by gravity. they will always be constants to one another, but the same force that locks them together will forever keep them from touching.
he'll wait for her to turn back around, do whatever the hell it is she's doing, making friendship bracelets for her and becket or whatever (that's more raleigh's style and he knows it, but the grit to his teeth is there all the same. chuck's gaze returns to the window out of sheer spite. he'll throw the nearest object (a drab looking pillow no bigger than his forearm) as soon as she isn't looking. cheap shot. ]
no subject
That's why he's the only one who can get a real rise out of her, who can barrel roll his way past the quiet reservedness of so many of her defenses. Chuck had watched her build those walls inside of herself, and when they were children had even helped her lay the foundation of so many, passing her brick after brick, his hands lingering and then not and then pulling away until there was nothing left for Mako to do but finish what they'd started on her own.
It doesn't make her bitter or angry or sad. It just makes her close to him in a way no one else is. A way that will never be closer (they'd tried it and it was awkward but maybe it was special too; Mako doesn't know).
Rather than give him the satisfaction of turning back to the little notepad she's been doodling in, Mako swings herself round and out to dangle, the motion graceful and near-balletic as she deposits herself into the narrow aisle of the camper feet-first. There's a flash of pale leg (not long, but lithe) as she does so, then the undeniable push of her hand as she tries to shove Chuck's feet off the bench across from him in an attempt to make room for herself.
He might be stubborn but she is too and Mako's never (never) walked away from anything. Never in her entire life. ]